


Friday

by 35-leukothea (35_leukothea)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Comfort, Dreams, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Nightmares, in which mulder is both a concerned partner and a literal child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:24:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6250525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35_leukothea/pseuds/35-leukothea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully relax after a long week and enjoy a really, really great Friday night. Really.</p><p>(Okay, not really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friday

**Author's Note:**

> [to the tune of "surprise" from young frankenstein] i'm TRAAAAASH
> 
> this takes place in season 6 during their suspension from the x-files

It had been, to say the least, a long week.

A dull, dragging, rainy week, full of mindless paperwork and nights that didn’t end and mornings before it was morning and never enough food and _boredom_. And they hadn’t even accomplished anything quantifiable—if they had actually gotten something _done_ , Mulder was certain, the week wouldn’t have felt so terrible. And long. God, it had been long. It was like when you fly back from Europe and suddenly you’ve stuffed eight hours into the space of three and your body thinks it’s been hit by a bus. For five days in a row.

Alright, maybe that was melodramatic. But he was tired and largely dissatisfied with life at the moment, and he knew Scully was, too, even if her stringent personal code of conduct didn’t let her show it at work. Actually, he was pretty sure that she had gotten even less sleep than he had this past week, since she refused to let herself pass out during the daytime. That was why he was so surprised when, upon his announcing that he’d be spending Friday evening at home finally wrapping up their drudgery (and resisting the urge to throw it directly into the garbage), she decided she’d help him.

“I want to finish it, too,” she had explained, ignoring the bewildered expression on Mulder’s face. “I want to shove it in the bottom of a drawer somewhere and be back in the field next week as much as you do.”

“Well, yeah,” he agreed hesitantly, “but...”

She raised her eyebrows. “But?”

“But—” He stopped and restarted. “I mean, look at you! Your eyes are shot to hell. Strain them anymore and you’ll cry blood.”

“Thanks for that lovely imagery.”

“I’m only partly joking, you know.”

“Well, I can’t let you do it all on your own.”

Their rapid-fire raillery came to an abrupt halt with that. After a moment of silence, Mulder said, grudgingly, “Thanks.”

There was another brief pause. “You’re buying dinner,” Scully added.

“What!”

“It’s your fault for never having anything in your damn fridge.”

“I do too have something in my damn fridge!”

“If you’ll recall, Mulder, the last time I was over in the evening I had to force you to go grocery shopping because all you had were two slices of old pizza and a carton of orange juice— _don’t you fucking laugh_ —”

But he was laughing, and there was nothing to be done about it. “What can I say,” he had sighed, “I’m incorrigible.”

And thus their plans for a thoroughly draining Friday evening were fixed. They considered briefly just staying at the Bureau to finish everything, but Scully wanted to shower and change (wasn’t a bad idea), so Mulder gathered up everything they needed (still three boxes’ worth of paper he’d much rather burn) and brought it home.

He had washed, changed, and already begun sorting through the first box when Scully knocked, around 7:30. She always knocked the same way, like the Morse code letter _s_. Mulder had no idea if she did that subconsciously or not—three short raps wasn’t exactly an odd knock, after all—but the fact remained that she did it. He opened the door and ushered her in.

“Coffee’s on.”

“Great,” she said unenthusiastically, taking the case that held her glasses from a pocket of her raincoat before tossing it over a chair. Her hair was pulled back, and she was wearing a gray-and-white flannel that Mulder hadn’t seen in years.

“You look ready for the long haul,” he commented. “Or the sweet release of death.”

She narrowed her tired blue eyes at him, unimpressed. “You’re not funny, Mulder.”

“Sure I am,” he said. “You’re just cranky.”

Now she was fighting to keep the amusement off her face, and they both knew it. “That really makes me want to stay and help you.”

He laughed nervously. “Teasing,” he assured her. “I already started, so just, uh...have at it.”

They _had at it_ for the next several hours, digging through the boxes of files neither of them wanted to even think about, aided only by yellow lamplight and the soft glow emanating from the fish tank. The caffeine worked temporary wonders for Mulder (it always did), and they ordered Chinese around 8:45, which served as a much needed break. They sat eating on the floor amidst slumping piles of paperwork, slouched over and talking quietly.

“Honestly, Scully,” Mulder said as he picked at his rice, “if this is _your_ idea of a fun Friday night, I can barely imagine what that says about me. Hey, did you know that Friday was named after—”

“—the Norse goddess Freyja?” she interrupted calmly. Her voice sounded a little sore. “Yes, Mulder. Everyone knows that.”

For some reason this irritated him greatly—how dare she insult his knowledge of obscure trivia. “Well,” he retorted, “did you know that if you leave a jellyfish out in the sun it’ll evaporate?”

“I did not,” she replied.

That was not nearly as satisfying as he had thought it would be. For a moment, he just glared at her, miffed by her supreme equability. “Shut up.”

She grinned, and his annoyance dissipated in an instant. “I hope you don’t know that from experience,” she said pointedly.

They cleaned up and returned to work with some reluctance. Scully seemed slightly ill at ease surrounded by so much clutter, so she moved to the couch. Mulder moved to the desk and powered up the computer.

“I’ll start inputting this all into the database,” he said, gesturing to the stacks of files they’d already sorted.

“Alright, tell me if you want to trade off.”

He nodded, thinking privately that Scully would probably get migraines for a year if she had to stare at a computer screen for ten minutes in her condition. He could do it himself.

Hours passed. The room was filled with ambient, indistinct sounds—the clicks of the mouse and keyboard, papers rustling, rain pattering on the windows, the delicate hum of the filtration system in the fish tank. Accompanied by the knowledge and feeling of each other’s presence, the environment was quite pleasant. They had settled into a kind of rhythm, a comfortable monotony that required less and less focus the longer it continued. It wasn’t tiring or dull anymore: it was mindless.

At some point, Scully had kicked off her shoes and adopted a reclined position on the couch, shifting every once in a while to reorient herself, and Mulder took to watching her out of the corner of his eye as he worked—not in a weird way, just in an _I-don’t-want-to-disturb-my-best-friend-if-she’s-asleep_ way. When he glanced over she was usually leafing listlessly through files or fidgeting with her glasses, and when they spoke she was very quiet, almost like she was sick. Mulder noticed sometime around 11:00 that the sound of her breathing had changed, becoming slower and drawn out, and made a point after that not to ask her any questions if he could help it. They were nearly done, anyway, and he was honestly surprised she’d managed to stay awake for this long at all. By the time he next checked on her, she was out. The part of him that knew she would be angry at herself in the morning considered waking her up, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. She’d thank him later.

Trying not to trip, Mulder stepped carefully over the boxes and strewn papers as he navigated his way to the couch. Scully lay on her side in an awkward, mostly vertical way, holding a file in one hand and her glasses in the other, which he took from her gently and placed on a side table. She looked cold. Maybe she _was_ getting sick. For a moment he once again considered waking her up and driving her back to Georgetown so she wouldn’t be too miserable come morning if she were ill, but once again decided against it. The pillows were sort of lumpy and you could definitely feel the wood through the cushioning on the armrests, but it was a wide couch, and she was a small person, so she’d be reasonably comfortable.

Well. Probably. Sometimes Mulder forgot that normal people owned beds.

He had blankets in the closet, and went to retrieve an old quilt for her (it was the only one he remembered having washed recently). Distantly he wondered if this meant he’d be sleeping in his desk chair, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Anyway, he was going to finish that stupid third box. There was barely any of it left, but even looking at it still pissed him off. It didn’t deserve their attention. He might even go so far as to say it didn’t deserve _anyone’s_ attention. It deserved a shredder.

But he was going to finish it. The only thing that would make Scully angrier when she woke up was if there was still work left to be done, and boy, did he not want Scully angry and possibly sick first thing on a Saturday.

He found that the work was both less and more tolerable without his partner. He worked slower, and no longer benefited from the satisfaction of knowing that Scully was suffering, too, but on the other hand he couldn’t distract himself anymore, either. It was a delicate balance.

Scully wasn’t a deep sleeper, so Mulder found it a little strange that she had hardly moved at all since she fell asleep—she had shifted to a more comfortable position, but she was still nestled up under the quilt, her hands curled loosely by her face. She was frowning very slightly, but that wasn’t exactly unusual, and he didn’t think too much of it.

Until she started whimpering.

Mulder hated that word, but it was the first one that came to his head. Well, maybe he didn’t hate the word—maybe he just hated that he had applied it to Scully, who was so strong, so untouchable in his mind that he couldn’t bring himself to think of her upset by something so _small_. Scully was the most impressive, most capable person he knew. She was like that withering glare she threw anyone or anything she deemed less than legitimate, terrifying and beautiful and incredibly effective all at the same time; how could she be reduced to shambles by something as insignificant as a dream? It just didn’t seem like Scully. Scully, who hated structure and loved challenge and was brimming with unanswered questions. Scully, who seemed to get through life solely by being so clever and adroit and using her distinct brand of icy professionalism to pick fights.

But now he was just waxing poetic. Nobody could choose not to dream.

This time he didn’t have to perform a balancing act to get to her through the clutter. He sat down cross-legged on the floor at the end of the couch, putting the two of them at eye level, and took a moment to observe. Her hands were clenched in fists now, her nails digging into her palms, and her face was screwed up in something that looked like real, physical pain—or the insinuation of it. But her breath hissed through her teeth and tiny whines scraped the back of her throat like something really was wrong, and it made Mulder worry.

“Nightmare, Scully,” he said softly. “It’s just a dream.”

Suddenly her eyes snapped open, alight with panic, and she tried to sit upright so quickly she smacked her head on the armrest. She gave a cry of pain and Mulder reached out to her, but she shoved him away.

“Hey, shh, shh,” he chided gently, talking her down from her distress. “It’s me, Scully, it’s Mulder. It’s okay.”

“Mulder—?”

“You’re safe, you just hit your head.”

Now that she knew where she was and what was going on, his presence seemed to visibly calm her. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, blinking as if to dispel what was left of the nightmare from her sight, but evidently in no pain.

“It’s okay,” he repeated. He reached to turn on a lamp—she winced as the light went on—then sat back down on the floor. Scully lay back on her side again, facing him.

Absently hating himself for his insatiable curiosity, he asked, “What did you dream about?”

She shrugged, taking a moment to respond. “Melissa.”

She said it as if the word were _penmanship_ or _windmill_ or anything other than the name of her murdered sister. This time, Mulder resisted his natural propensity to drill her with questions and kept silent, letting her continue on her own.

“And Deep Throat. And I saw...someone else.”

“What happened?”

She took such a long time responding that for a moment, Mulder almost panicked. Finally, she said, “I don’t remember.”

He sighed quietly. Scully didn’t lie—he had learned that the hard way—but this, he knew, was not the whole truth, whatever that may have been. He wouldn’t press her, though. Maybe in some capacity, he couldn’t.

“Mulder?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to go back to sleep?”

She fell silent. For some amount of time he couldn’t quantify, they just looked at each other.

After a while, he asked, “Scully, are you thinking about REM cycles?”

Unexpectedly, she smiled—it was tiny, almost imperceptible, but it was there. “What if I am?”

He smiled back and brushed a stray wisp of hair off her face, without really knowing why. “Just wondering. I can leave you be, if you like.”

For no reason he could discern, she said, “I feel silly.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You don’t get nightmares.”

“Says who?”

“Says all the times I’ve—” She stopped.

He smirked. “Watched me sleep?”

“I wasn’t going to mention it.” She gave a short, breathy laugh. “Even if it is true.”

Another pause.

“You should try and get some rest,” he said.

“I know.”

She had a look in her eye like she was a thousand miles away. Mulder touched her hand, as if to ground her, then stood and switched off the lamp. “You need anything, just ask.”

“Mulder.”

“Yes?”

“You were there.”

He blinked at her twice before realizing what she meant, and crouched to be on her level again. “Was I kicking ass?”

“It was like the first time they shut us down,” she continued, as though she hadn’t heard him. “So many nonsensical things were being thrown at me and I couldn’t sort through any of it. I couldn’t get to you.”

He sat back down—now that Scully was talking, it seemed like she wanted to go on until it was over.

“I needed information, but every time I tried contacting Deep Throat, I remembered he was dead, except it wasn’t really like remembering—it was like being hit with the shock and horror of it all over again, every single time. It was dark and I was scared and I didn’t actually _see_ him get shot, you know, I just heard gunfire and suddenly he was on the ground and you’d been pushed out the back of a van.”

She stopped to gather herself. She didn’t seem frightened anymore, though, just disconcerted.

“And Melissa. I kept seeing flashes of her out of the corner of my eye—her hair, her rings—but when I turned around, she’d be gone. She kept calling my name, but I could never tell if it was her voice or just my thoughts. And it _hurt_ , Mulder, it was like having a seizure.” Her expression turned slightly bitter. “I haven’t had a nightmare so elaborate in years.”

“The paperwork’s gone to your head,” he joked. “You’ve been bored to insanity.”

“As if that isn’t _folie à deux_.”

He grinned, heartened by her sarcasm. “What are you suggesting?”

She gave him the _Mulder, please_ look.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “Hey, Scully, are you sick?”

She frowned at him. “Am I what?”

“Sick. Ailing. Unwell.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, just checking.”

If she found Mulder’s questioning suspicious, she didn’t say so; the possibility had probably already occurred to her anyway. “I think I’ll try and sleep now,” she decided.

He nodded, then sat up on his knees and kissed her forehead, lingering a moment to breathe in the scent of familiarity. “Don’t let the ancient glow-bugs bite.”

“Mulder, I swear to God—”

“Kidding!”

Scully huffed, Mulder snickered, and everything was normal.

 

* * *

 

When she woke, her first thought was, crossly, _I should still be asleep._

Her second thought was that she was warm, nearly to the point of discomfort. She could feel Mulder’s quilt lying heavily over her, trapping all the body heat she’d lost in the past several hours underneath it. It was soft and clean-smelling, though, which made it tolerable.

Her third thought was that she was _embarrassed_. That hadn’t all _really_ happened...had it?

It was best not to think about it.

Scully sat up too quickly and instantly became hyperaware of her sore neck and shoulders, undoubtedly the result of sleeping on a couch. Blinking drowsiness away, she cleared her dry throat, checked her watch (9:37), and glanced around. The room was significantly neater than when she’d last seen it, which she appreciated. Additionally, she appeared to be alone.

“Mulder?” she called, cringing at her raw voice. There was no response.

She pushed back the quilt and stood, pleased to find she was only slightly off-balance. Not that she had expected to be overwhelmingly dizzy or anything. She got a glass of water and washed her face, then, feeling much more awake, phoned Mulder. The line rang exactly once before he picked up.

“Morning, G-woman,” he said cheerily, like he knew something she didn’t. “How was my couch?”

Indelicately, she asked, “Where the heck are you?”

“Yeesh, already bringing out the expletives, are we? It’s so early.”

“ _Mulder_.”

“It’s a surprise! I’ll be back in ten. Just hang tight and try not to miss me.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “No need to hurt my feelings.”

She hung up.

The next ten minutes were surprisingly long. She undid and redid her knotty ponytail, skimmed the front page of the paper that had been haphazardly thrown into the foyer, inspected Mulder’s bookshelf, then finally stopped trying to do something that required concentration and just watched his fish as they went about their sad little lives. He did take good care of them, though, as hard as she had found that to believe at first, and they were nice to look at, almost mesmerizing. They were certainly easier on her strained eyes than tiny black-and-white newspaper print. She felt like she’d been sitting there for half an hour by the time Mulder came back.

“It’s me,” he announced, unnecessarily, as he let himself in.

Scully didn’t move. “Oh, good,” she said dryly. “Otherwise I would have had to shoot you.”

“You and what gun?” There was a sound like plastic bags rustling. “Not to interrupt your ultra-important whatever-you’re-doing, but look what I got.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was holding out a thoroughly unremarkable box of cereal for her to see, looking proud of himself.

She raised an eyebrow. “You bought breakfast.”

He nodded animatedly.

“You know that stuff is, like, ninety percent sugar, right?”

“Ten percent less than it should be, my friend.”

“You eat like a child.”

“It’s funny, you’re the first person who’s ever told me that.”

She sighed, half amused and half exasperated—she knew what this was about. “Mulder, adults don’t eat PB&Js. Not in public.”

“That’s stupid,” he said decisively. “And it’s really quite liberating not to conform to what the world says normal people should eat on a daily basis. You should try it. Societal consciousness is overrated.”

This was not a conversation worth pursuing. “Anything else in those bags?” Scully asked.

“Nope.”

“You didn’t buy milk?”

“I have milk.”

She shrugged. “Alright.”

He disappeared into the kitchenette, and the sounds of bowls rattling and cardboard being torn followed. She heard him open the fridge, then for a moment, there was nothing.

He walked back out into the living room, wearing the expression of someone who has just learned a mildly interesting new fact. “I don’t have milk,” he declared.

Scully pretended to think for a moment. “I guess we’ll just have to be normal people and eat it plain like children.”

He paused. “Straight out of the box?”

She laughed a little, which was apparently enough of an affirmation for him, overly excitable eccentric he was. A couple minutes later found them nestled next to each other on the couch like kids, morning cartoons playing on the television and the box of cereal open in between them. Scully was sort of falling asleep again, and Mulder was clearly having way more fun than she was, but still—Saturday was looking to be a lot better than Friday.

**Author's Note:**

> THE FLANNEL FROM ICE U KNOW THE ONE


End file.
